Call Me Nothing

Chapter Four: Sharp Rules, Sharper Edges

The car winds up a long, manicured drive. No cracks in the pavement. No weeds between bricks. Just perfection. Empty perfection.

Elaine’s house—or estate, I guess—isn't just big. It’s massive. Imposing. The kind of place where nothing is allowed to be out of place, including the people inside it.

We pull beneath a stone archway. The doors tower, too tall to feel real—like the house is pretending to be a cathedral, not a home.

The driver parks, steps out, and opens my door before I can reach for the handle. But he doesn’t offer a hand or say a word.

I step out onto the smooth driveway, and take in the splendid but intimidating view.

The air smells like pine and polished money.

And just as the front doors swing open, I realize something I hadn’t noticed before:

No birds.                                                                                                                                              No breeze.                                                                                                                                        No sound.                                                                                                                                Just silence—perfect and wrong, like the house didn’t want to be disturbed... A bit different but still similar to the silence in the car. Controlled. Manufactured.

Like grief isn't allowed here.

A woman stands in the foyer, hands folded neatly in front of her. She’s older, maybe mid-fifties, with deep brown skin and silver hair pulled into a soft bun. Her expression is kind, but not overly so—like she’s learned to be gentle without getting too close.

“You must be Miss Honey.” Her voice is warm, soft around the edges, but there's a practiced rhythm to it. Like she’s used to speaking carefully around people who don’t listen.

I nod once.

She gives a small smile. “I’m Bernadette. I’ve been with the family a long time. If you need anything—food, linens, a walk—I’m around. I’ll be the one making sure you settle in.”

Settle in.

Like I’m a suitcase that needs unpacking.

She doesn’t ask how I’m doing. Doesn’t mention my father. Doesn’t offer condolences. Just turns and gestures for me to follow. I do, mostly because I don’t have a better option.

The inside of the estate is even worse than I imagined—gleaming floors, high ceilings, light that doesn’t feel like it comes from the sun. Yes, everything is beige and expensive, but that was all, like warmth was the one thing they couldn’t afford.

“Your room’s upstairs,” Bernadette says, leading me past an endless stretch of hallways. “Everything’s been set up for you. Miss Elaine had it made up just this morning.”

She says it like that should comfort me.

I glance around as we move—too many framed paintings, too many empty chairs. The house feels like it was designed to impress, not to hold people.

“Oh,” Bernadette says casually, like she just remembered. “You’ll have a housemate of sorts.”

That makes me pause.